Emily and Earl

Emily has a profound need to chase balls and squirrels. They are, apparently, her reason for living (other than loving us, of course). The very DOGNESS of standard poodles are, I swear, the best kept secret of the pure-bred dog world. Why do people breed poodles and labradors? It is soooo redundant--poodles already HAVE the warm, joyous, ohmigoshiloveyousoooooooooomuch personality of the lab and they're just a tiny bit smarter. I will never, ever have anything other than a standard poodle, ever again. (Unless poor Chris dies, in which case I will have a standard poodle AND some cats. Actually, if he dies, I'll probably get like three standard poodles and three cats and turn into one of those crazy old women who have cats and dogs and never go anywhere because they can't find their keys.)

Chris got Earl the Squirrel for Emily for Christmas. I don't know who makes it but it had dog club sticker on it (you know, the one that does all the papers for breed dogs. I'm blanking on the name right now). It is the most phenomenally resilient stuffed dog toy EVER. They should make houses out of this material. Emily has killed and attempted to gut Earl (because he rhymes with squirrel and because, you know the Dixie Chicks song . . . Earl had to die) a million times, and although he's gotten crusty, he's still in one piece. She likes to bring him to unsuspecting visitors so they can huck Earl for her. I was just uploading a photo of recently finished baby sweater and found this photo on the camera:



I laughed a mighty laugh and then hoarked it for the blog. [from the family glossary: HOARK: v. to swipe, often gleefully]

Here's that baby sweater: size 6-12 months if you're a big, jovial baby. Size 12-18 months if you're a petite little thing. This was knit for a big baby boy.



It is my favorite baby sweater pattern of all time. I have modified it a smidge because I have the pattern memorized, (not that that keeps me from making stupid mistakes. I did have to rip this back clear to the bottom of the neckline because I, apparently, can't count.)

I can't find my keys. I can't keep up with the housework (no, I mean, it's even worse than normal). I drove to New Jersey on my way to Washington D.C. I can't count my stitches for a baby sweater I've knit 5 or 7 or 9 times. I drive places and forget where I'm going on the way. At what point is it time to see a doctor? I've taken to counting the children every 10 minutes or so like I did when the twins were just starting to walk/run, just so I don't lose one in this pathetic excuse for brain activity!